-  • '  '  -  -~ .  — ,-• 


' 


-       V   ---•' 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSINA 
ETC 


POEMS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


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r//'/?c(to.:cu/c/  cur  modern  tnaicfs  lottoy-V^P 

</         4-  /  r  'j,  j,  CX   I  "»V 

c/  waicf) ,  ar?d  canT  conjecTure:    ^>K. 
'tyl fiesscmisiic  lecture?  — 


fr&e  tfiinyj  sweet ancC seemly,  ajj&Si. 


n  ffray 

my  Qbromy  -  dteftgfft 
Jn  fragrant  cedar- presses; 
n  rw(maQ(A~comsT3  warm  and 
Jn  (cuan  ay-id (iCac  dresses; 


DEDICATION 

TO       *       .       , 

What  would  our  modern  maids  to-day  ? 

I  watch,  and  cant  conjecture  : 
A  dubious  Tak  ? — an  Ibsen  Play  ? — 

A  pessimistic  Lecture  ? — 

/  know  not.  But  I  his,  Child,  1  know  : 
You  like  things  sweet  and  seemly ; 

Old-fashioned  flowers,  old  shapes  in  Bow, 
"  Auld  Robin  Gray"  (extremely); 

You — with  my  "Dorothy " — delight 

In  fragrant  cedar-presses  ; 
In  window-corners  warm  and  bright, 

In  lawn,  and  lilac  dresses ; 

Yon  still  can  read,  at  any  rale, 
Charles  Lamb  and  "  Evelina  "  : — • 

To  Yon,  My  Dear,  I  dedicate 
This  "SrouY  OF  ROS;NA." 


Were  it  not  for  the  recoil  ction  of  certain  incon- 
venient but  salutary  epigrams,  and  more  parti- 
cularly Popes  couplet  about  the  pictures  that  "  for 
the  page  atone,"  /  might  perhaps  be  disposed  to 
cheat  myself  with  the  belief  that  the  welcome  which 
greeted  "  The  Ballad  of  Beau  Brocade "  was  not, 
in  the  main,  attributable  to  the  designs  of  an 
Artist  whose  hand  is  never  so  happy  as  when  it 
works  in  the  half-light  of  a  bygone  time.  But 
if  I  cannot  lay  any  such  flattering  unction  to  my 
amour-propre,  /  may  at  least  reflect  with  satis- 
faction that  "  The  Story  of  Rosina "  is  equally 
fortunate  in  its  illustrator.  In  spite  of  many 


xii  Preface 

obstacles,  Mr.  HUGH  THOMSON  has  again  afforded 
me  the  invaluable  aid  of  his  fertile  fancy ;  and  1 
am  therefore  fully  warranted  in  hoping  that  this 
further  volume  of  reprinted  verses  may  achieve 
a  success  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  that  of  its 
predecessor. 

AUSTIN   DOBSON. 

September  1895. 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSIN  A  . 

UNE  MARQUISE 

AN  AUTUMN  IDYLL 

A  GARDEN  IDYI.L   . 

A  DIALOGUE  FROM  PLATO 

DOROTHY 

POT  POURRI     . 

THE  SUNDIAL. 

CUPID'S  ALLEY 

LOVE  IN  WINTER    . 

THE  CURE'S  PROGRESS  . 

AT  THE  CONVENT  GATE 

THFT  MISOGYNIST    . 

A  VIRTUOSO    . 


PAGE 

I 

19 
31 

43 
53 
59 
65 
7i 
79 
87 
9i 
97 


NOTES 


119 


' '  Dorothy " .         .         .         .        .         .        .         .        Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Heading  to  Preface vii 

Heading  to  Contents ix 

Heading  to  List  of  Illustrations    ......  xi 

"The  Scene" To  face  I 

Heading  to  poem ,         .         .  i 

"  Watching  the  suspended  cherries"    .         .         .       To  face  2 

"  Besought  her  leave " ,,  6 

"  The  unknown  comer "       .....            ,,  8 

"  On  his  knees  "  .......            ,,  10 

"  By  the  door  she  lingers" ,,  12 

"  Ah,  the  poor  child  !"         .....             ,,  14 

"Thick  as  bees" ,,  19 

Heading  to  poem 19 

"Your  last  poet  on  his  knees"    ....       To  face  20 

"Jove,  what  a  day !".         .....            ,,  31 

Heading  to  poem 31 


xvi  List  of  Illustrations 


PAGK 


"At  her  feet" To  face  36 

"  Peered  at  the  beehives  curiously "     ...           ,,  43 

Heading  to  poem          ........  43 

"  Some  dream  of  harp-prest  bosoms "           .         .       To  face  46 

"My  dear  and  deprecating  mother"    ...           ,,  48 

"  You're  reading  Greek  ?" ,,  53 

Heading  to  poem 53 

"The  sequel's  scarce  essential "  ....       To  face  54 

"  Preferred  '  Clarissa '  to  a  gossip's  word  "            .            ,,  59 

Heading  to  poem 59 

"  Twice-told  tales " To  face  60 

"  The  vanished  days" .         .....            ,,  65 

Heading  to  poem 65 

"  When  Dash  was  smitten"          .        •        «        .       To  face  66 

Hide  and  Seek „  67 

Heading  to  poem 71 

"  Read  and  re-read  " To  face  74 

"  High  and  low,  and  young  and  old"  ...            „  79 

Heading  to  poem 79 

"  From  off  his  seat  shall  tumble  "...       To  face  82 

"Bright-eyed  Bella"   .        .        .        •        *        .           ,,  87 

Heading  to  poem         ........  87 

"  Waiting  in  the  snow  " To  face  88 

"  Monsieur  the  Cur£ ".                  *        ,         .                     ,,  91 

Heading  to  poem         .                 91 


List  of  Illustrations  xvii 

PAGE 

•' Strive  to  lure  anew "          ,        ,        ,        ,  To  face  97 

Heading  to  poem                  «        <        .        «  97 

"  His  air  was  always  woe-begone  "       ,        „        ,  To  fact  103 

Heading  to  poem                                   ,        ,        ,  103 

"  We  met  him  last,  grown  stout ':          .         ,         ,  To  fact  106 

A  Virtuoso                    ,,,,.,            M  in 

Heading  to  poem         ,,,..,,.  in 


THE   STORY  OF   ROSINA 


AN     INCIDENT    IN    THE    LIFE    OF 
FRANCOIS    BOUCHER 

"  On  ne  badine  pas  avec  rumour" 


T 


HE  scene,  a  wood.     A  shepherd  tip-toe  creeping, 

Carries  a  basket,  whence  a  billet  peeps, 
To  lay  beside  a  silk-clad  Oread  sleeping 

Under  an  urn  ;  yet  not  so  sound  she  sleeps 
But  that  she  plainly  sees  his  graceful  act ; 

"  He  thinks  she  thinks  he  thinks  she  sleeps,"  in  fact. 

A 


2  The  Story  of  Rosina 

One  hardly  needs  the  "  Feint  par  Francois  Boucher. 

All  the  sham  life  comes  back  again, — one  sees 
Alcoves,  Ruelles,  the  Lever,  and  the  Coucher, 

Patches  and  Ruffles,  Roues  and  Marquises ; 
The  little  great,  the  infinite  small  thing 
That  ruled  the  hour  when  Louis  Quinze  was  king. 

For  these  were  yet  the  days  of  halcyon  weather, — 
A  "  Martin's  summer,"  when  the  nation  swam, 

Aimless  and  easy  as  a  wayward  feather, 
Down  the  full  tide  of  jest  and  epigram  ; — 

A  careless  time,  when  France's  bluest  blood 

Beat  to  the  tune  of  "  After  us  the  flood." 


Plain  Roland  still  was  placidly  "  inspecting," 
Not  now  Camille  had  stirred  the  Cafd  Foy ; 

Marat  was  young,  and  Guillotin  dissecting, 
Corday  unborn,  and  Lamballe  in  Savoie ; 


^     ,f   r- *=*     - 


^PKBRfi 


&Viy  f/Te  Ju-rpendecf  Cfternzi 


The  Story  of  Rosina 

No  faubourg  yet  had  heard  the  Tocsin  ring  : — 
This  was  the  summer — when  Grasshoppers  sing. 


And  far  afield  were  sun-baked  savage  creatures, 
Female  and  male,  that  tilled  the  earth,  and  wrung 

Want  from  the  soil ; — lean  things  with  livid  features, 
Shape  of  bent  man,  and  voice  that  never  sung  : 

These  were  the  Ants,  for  yet  to  Jacques  Bonhomme 

Tumbrils  were  not,  nor  any  sound  of  drum. 


But  Boucher  was  a  Grasshopper,  and  painted,  — 
Rose-water  Raphael, — en  couleur  de  rose, 

The  crowned  Caprice,  whose  sceptre,  nowise  sainted, 
Swayed  the  light  realm  of  ballets  and  bon-mots ; — 

Ruled  the  dim  boudoir's  demi-jour,  or  drove 

Pink- ribboned    flocks    through    some    pink-flowered 
grove. 


4  The  Story  of  Rosina 

A  laughing  Dame,  who  sailed  a  laughing  cargo 
Of  flippant  loves  along  the  Fleuve  du  Tendre 

Whose  greatest  grace  w&jupes  a  la  Camargo, 
Whose  gentlest  merit  gentiment  se  rendre  ; — 

Queen  of  the  rouge-cheeked   Hours,  whose  footsteps 
fell 

To  Rameau's  notes,  in  dances  by  Gardel ; — 

Her  Boucher  served,  till  Nature's  self  betraying, 
As  Wordsworth  sings,  the  heart  that  loved  her  not, 

Made  of  his  work  a  land  of  languid  Maying, 
Filled  with  false  gods  and  muses  misbegot ; — 

A  Versailles  Eden  of  cosmetic  youth, 

Wherein  most  things  went  naked,  save  the  Truth. 

Once,  only  once, —  perhaps  the  last  night's  revels 
Palled  in  the  after-taste,  — our  Boucher  sighed 

For  that  first  beauty,  falsely  named  the  Devil's, 
Young-lipped,  unlessoned,  joyous,  and  clear-eyed  \ 


The  Story  of  Rosina 

Flung  down  his  palette  like  a  weary  man, 

And  sauntered  slowly  through  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne. 


Wherefore,  we  know  not ;  but,  at  times,  far  nearer 
Things  common  come,  and  lineaments  half-seen 

Grow  in  a  moment  magically  clearer ; — 

Perhaps,  as   he  walked,  the   grass  he  called  "too 
green  " 

Rose  and  rebuked  him,  or  the  earth  "  ill-lighted  " 

Silently  smote  him  with  the  charms  he  slighted. 


But,  as  he  walked,  he  tired  of  god  and  goddess> 
Nymphs  that  deny,  and  shepherds  that  appeal ; 

Stale  seemed  the  trick  of  kerchief  and  of  bodice, 
Folds  that  confess,  and  flutters  that  reveal ;. 

Then  as  he  grew  more  sad  and  disenchanted, 

Forthwith  he  spied  the  very  thing  he  wanted. 


6  The  Story  of  Rosina 

So,  in  the  Louvre,  the  passer-by  might  spy  some 
Arch-looking  head,  with  half-evasive  air, 

Start  from  behind  the  fruitage  of  Van  Huysum, 
Grape-bunch  and  melon,  nectarine  and  pear  : — 

Here  'twas  no  Venus  of  Batavian  city, 

But  a  French  girl,  young,  piquante^  bright,  and  pretty 

Graceful  she  was,  as  some  slim  marsh-flower  shaken 
Among  the  sallows,  in  the  breezy  Spring ; 

Blithe  as  the  first  blithe  song  of  birds  that  waken, 
Fresh  as  a  fresh  young  pear-tree  blossoming ; 

Black  was  her  hair  as  any  blackbird's  feather ; 

Just  for  her  mouth,  two  rose-buds  grew  together. 

Sloes  were  her  eyes ;  but  her  soft  cheeks  were  peaches, 
Hued  like  an  Autumn  pippin,  where  the  red 

Seems  to  have  burned  right  through  the  skin,  and  reaches 
E'en  to  the  core ;  and  if  you  spoke,  it  spread 


The  Story  of  Rosina 

Up  till  the  blush  had  vanquished  all  the  brown, 
And,  like  two  birds,  the  sudden  lids  dropped  down. 


As   Boucher  smiled,    the    bright    black    eyes   ceased 
dancing, 

As  Boucher  spoke,  the  dainty  red  eclipse 
Filled  all  the  face  from  cheek  to  brow,  enhancing 

Half  a  shy  smile  that  dawned  around  the  lips. 
Then  a  shrill  mother  rose  upon  the  view ; 
"  Cerises^  Afsieul  A'osine,  depechez-vous  !  " 


Deep  in  the  fruit  her  hands  Rosina  buries, 
Soon  in  the  scale  the  ruby  bunches  lay. 

The  painter,  watching  the  suspended  cherries, 
Never  had  seen  such  little  fingers  play ; — 

As  for  the  arm,  no  Hebe's  could  be  rounder ; 

Low  in  his  heart  a  whisper  said  "  I've  found  her." 


8  The  Story  of  Rosina 

"Woo  first  the  mother,  if  you'd  win  the  daughter  !" 
Boucher  was  charmed,  and  turned  to  Madame  Afere, 

Almost  with  tears  of  suppliance  besought  her 
Leave  to  immortalize  a  face  so  fair ; 

Praised  and  cajoled  so  craftily  that  straightway 

Void  Rosina, — standing  at  his  gateway. 

Shy  at  the  first,  in  time  Rosina's  laughter 
Rang  through  the  studio  as  the  girlish  face 

Peeped  from  some  painter's  travesty,  or  after 
Showed  like  an  Omphale  in  lion's  case  ; 

Gay  as  a  thrush,  that  from  the  morning  dew 

Pipes  to  the  light  its  clear  "  Reveillez  vous" 

Just  a  mere  child  with  sudden  ebullitions, 
Flashes  of  fun,  and  little  bursts  of  song, 

Petulant  pains,  and  fleeting  pale  contritions, 
Mute  little  moods  of  misery  and  wrong ; 


The  Story  of  Rosina  \ 

Only  a  child,  of  Nature's  rarest  making, 

Wistful  and  sweet. — and  with  a  heart  for  breaking  ! 


Day  after  day  the  little  loving  creature 

Came  and  returned ;  and  still  the  Painter  felt, 

Day  after  day,  the  old  theatric  Nature 

Fade  from  his  sight,  and  like  a  shadow  melt 

Paniers  and  Powder,  Pastoral  and  Scene, 

Killed  by  the  simple  beauty  of  Rosine. 


As  for  the  girl,  she  turned  to  her  new  being, — 
Came,  as  a  bird  that  hears  its  fellow  call ; 

Blessed,  as  the  blind  that  blesses  God  for  seeing 
Grew,  as  a  flower  on  which  the  sun-rays  fall ; 

Loved  if  you  will ;  she  never  named  it  so : 

Love  comes  unseen, — we  only  see  it  go. 


io  J^he  Story  of  Rosina 

There  is  a  figure  among  Boucher's  sketches, 
Slim, — a  child-face,  the  eyes  as  black  as  beads, 

Head  set  askance,  and  hand  that  shyly  stretches 
Flowers  to  the  passer,  with  a  look  that  pleads. 

This  was  no  other  than  Rosina  surely ; — 

None  Boucher  knew  could  else  have  looked  so  purely 

But  forth  her  Story,  for  I  will  not  tarry, 

Whether  he  loved  the  little  "  nut-brown  maid  "  ; 

If,  of  a  truth,  he  counted  this  to  carry 

Straight  to  the  end,  or  just  the  whim  obeyed, 

Nothing  we  know,  but  only  that  before 

More  had  been  done,  a  finger  tapped  the  door. 

Opened  Rosina  to  the  unknown  comer. 

'Twas  a  young  girl — "  une  pauvre  fiile?  she  said, 
"  They  had  been  growing  poorer  all  the  summer ; 

Father  was  lame,  and  mother  lately  dead ; 


The  Story  of  Rosina  1 1 

Bread  was  so  dear,  and, — oh !  but  want  was  bitter, 
Would  Monsieur  pay  to  have  her  for  a  sitter  ? 


Men  called  her  pretty."     Boucher  looked  a  minute  : 
Yes,  she  was  pretty ;  and  her  face  beside 

Shamed  her  poor  clothing  by  a  something  in  it, — 
Grace,  and  a  presence  hard  to  be  denied ; 

This  was  no  common  offer  it  was  certain  ; — 

" Allez,  Rosina!  sit  behind  the  curtain." 


Meantime  the  Painter,  with  a  mixed  emotion, 
Drew  and  re-drew  his  ill-disguised  Marquise, 

Passed  in  due  time  from  praises  to  devotion ; 
J^ast  when  his  sitter  left  him  on  his  knees, 

Rose  in  a  maze  of  passion  and  surprise, — 

Rose,  and  beheld  Rosina's  saddened  eyes. 


12  The  Story  of  Rosina 

Thrice-happy  France,  whose  facile  sons  inherit 

Still  in  the  old  traditionary  way, 
Power  to  enjoy — with  yet  a  rarer  merit, 

Power  to  forget !     Our  Boucher  rose,  I  say, 
With  hand  still  prest  to  heart,  with  pulses  throbbing, 
And  blankly  stared  at  poor  Rosina  sobbing 

"  This  was  no  model,  ATsieu,  but  a  lady." 
Boucher  was  silent,  for  he  knew  it  true. 

"  Est-ce  que  vous  Faimez  ?"     Never  answer  made  he  ! 
Ah,  for  the  old  love  fighting  with  the  new  ! 

"  Est-ce  que  vous  Faimez  ?  "  sobbed  Rosina's  sorrow. 

" Bon!"   murmured   Boucher;    "she   will    come    to- 


How  like  a  hunter  thou,  O  Time,  dost  harry 

Us,  thine  oppressed,  and  pleasured  with  the  chase, 

Sparest  to  strike  thy  sorely-running  quarry, 
Following  not  less  with  unrelenting  face. 


J2y  f/ie  doo*  J/i 


The  Story  of  Rosina  13 

Time,  if  Love  hunt,  and  Sorrow  hunt,  with  thee, 
Woe  to  the  Fawn !     There  is  no  way  to  flee. 


Woe  to  Rosina  !     By  To-morrow  stricken, 
Swift  from  her  life  the  sun  of  gold  declined. 

Nothing  remained  but  those  gray  shades  that  thicken, 
Cloud  and  the  cold, — the  loneliness — the  wind. 

Only  a  little  by  the  door  she  lingers, — 

Waits,  with  wrung  lip  and  interwoven  fingers. 


No,  not  a  sign.     Already  with  the  Painter 

Grace  and  the  nymphs  began  recovered  reign ; 

Truth  was  no  more,  and  nature,  waxing  fainter, 
Paled  to  the  old  sick  Artifice  again. 

Seeing  Rosina  going  out  to  die, 

How    should    he    know    that    Fame    had    passed 
him  by? 


14  The  Story  of  Rosina 

doing  to  die  !     For  who  shall  waste  in  sadness, 
Shorn  of  the  sun,  the  very  warmth  and  light, 

Miss  the  green  welcome  of  the  sweet  earth's  gladness, 
Lose  the  round  life  that  only  Love  makes  bright : 

There  is  no  succour  if  these  things  are  taken. 

None  but  Death  loves  the  lips  by  Love  forsaken. 

So,  in  a  little,  when  those  Two  had  parted, — 

Tired  of  himself,  and  weary  as  before, 
Boucher  remembering,  sick  and  sorry-hearted, 

Stayed  for  a  moment  by  Rosina's  door. 
"  Ah,  the  poor  child  !  "  the  neighbours  cry  of  her, 
"  Morte,    Al'sieu,    morte  I      On     dit, — des  peincs    du 
cceur  !  " 

Just  for  a  second,  say,  the  tidings  shocked  him, 
Say,  in  his  eye  a  sudden  tear-drop  shone, — 

Just  for  a  second  a  dull  feeling  mocked  him 

With  a  vague  sense  of  something  priceless  gone  ; 


,  if* poo 


The  Story  of  Rosina  1 5 

Then, — for  at  best  'twas  but  the  empty  type, 

The  husk  of  man  with  which  the  days  were  ripe, — 

Then,  he  forgot  her.     But,  for  you  that  slew  her, 
You,  her  own  sister,  that  with  airy  ease, 

Just  for  a  moment's  fancy  could  undo  her, 
Pass  on  your  way.     A  little  while,  Marquise, 

Be  the  sky  silent,  be  the  sea  serene ; 

A  pleasant  passage — £  Sainte  Guillotine  ! 

As  for  Rosina, — for  the  quiet  sleeper, 

Whether  stone  hides  her,  or  the  happy  grass, 

If  the  sun  quickens,  if  the  dews  beweep  her, 
Laid  in  the  Madeleine  or  Montparnasse, 

Nothing  we  know, — but  that  her  heart  is  cold, 

Poor  beating  heart !     And  so  the  story's  told. 


UNE   MARQUISE 


s  in  y.   7 


A    RHYMED    MONOLOGUE    IN    THE    LOUVRE 

"Belle  Marquise,  vos  beaux  yeux  me  font  mourii 
(Tumour." — MOLlkRE 


S  you  sit  there  at  your  ease, 

O  Marquise ! 

And  the  men  flock  round  your  knees 
Thick  as  bees, 

'9 


2O  Une  Marquise 

Mute  at  every  word  you  utter, 
Servants  to  your  least  frill  flutter, 

"  Belle  Marquise  I " — 
As  you  sit  there  growing  prouder, 

And  your  ringed  hands  glance  and  go, 
And  your  fan's  froufrou  sounds  louder, 

And  your  "beaux yeux"  flash  and  glow  ; — 
Ah,  you  used  them  on  the  Painter, 

As  you  know, 

For  the  Sieur  Larose  spoke  fainter, 
Bowing  low, 

Thanked  Madame  and  Heaven  for  Mercy 
That  each  sitter  was  not  Circe, 

Or  at  least  he  told  you  so , — 
Growing  proud,  I  say,  and  prouder 

To  the  crowd  that  come  and  go, 
Dainty  Deity  of  Powder, 

Fickle  Queen  of  Fop  and  Beau, 


m  ii 


W'  v 

«fi|  i  ii 


0.  / 

jfiv 


Une  Marquise  21 

As  you  sit  where  lustres  strike  you, 

Sure  to  please, 

Do  we  love  you  most  or  like  you, 

"  Belle  Marquise  !  " 


You  are  fair ;  O  yes,  we  know  it 

Well,  Marquise : 

For  he  swore  it,  your  last  poet, 

On  his  knees; 

And  he  called  all  heaven  to  witness 

Of  his  ballad  and  its  fitness, 

"  Belle  Marquise  I ' 

You  were  everything  in  ere 

(With  exception  of  severe)^ — 

You  were  cruelle  and  rebelle, 

With  the  rest  of  rhymes  as  well ; 


22  Une  Marquise 

You  were  " Reine"  and  "Mere  tf  Amour"  ; 

You  were  "  Venus  a  Cythere  "  ; 
"Sappho  mise  en  Pompadour" 

And  "  Alinerve  en  Parabere  "  ; 
You  had  every  grace  of  heaven 

In  your  most  angelic  face, 
With  the  nameless  finer  leaven 

Lent  of  blood  and  courtly  race ; 
And  he  added,  too,  in  duty, 
Ninon's  wit  and  Boufflers'  beauty; 
And  La  Valliere's  yeux  veloutes 

Followed  these ; 
And  you  liked  it,  when  he  said  it 

(On  his  knees), 
And  you  kept  it,  and  you  read  it, 

"Belle  Marquise  I n 


Une  Marquise  23 


Yet  with  us  your  toilet  graces 

Fail  to  please, 
And  the  last  of  your  last  faces, 

And  your  mise , 
For  we  hold  you  just  as  real, 

"  Belle  Marquise  /' 
As  your  Bergers  and  Bergeres, 
lies  tf  Amour  and  Batelieres  ; 
As  your/tfra,  and  your  Versailles, 
Gardens,  grottoes,  and  rocailks  ; 
As  your  Naiads  and  your  trees ; — 
Just  as  near  the  old  ideal 

Calm  and  ease, 

As  the  Venus  there,  by  Coustou, 
That  a  fan  would  make  quite  flighty. 


24  Une  Marquise 

Is  to  her  the  gods  were  used  to, — 
Is  to  grand  Greek  Aphrodite, 

Sprung  from  seas. 
You  are  just  a  porcelain  trifle, 

"Belle  Marquise  !> 
Just  a  thing  of  puffs  and  patches, 
Made  for  madrigals  and  catches, 
Not  for  heart-wounds,  but  for  scratches, 

O  Marquise ! 
Just  a  pinky  porcelain  trifle, 

"Belle  Marquise!' 
Wrought  in  rarest  rose-Dubarry, 
Quick  at  verbal  point  and  parry, 
Clever,  doubtless ; — but  to  marry, 

No,  Marquise ! 


Une  Marquise  25 


For  your  Cupid,  you  have  clipped  him, 

Rouged   and    patched    him,    nipped  and    snipped 

him, 
And  with  chapeau-bras  equipped  him, 

11  Belle  Marquise  I n 

Just  to  arm  you  through  your  wife-time, 
And  the  languors  of  your  life-time, 

"  Belle  Marquise  !  " 
Say,  to  trim  your  toilet  tapers, 
Or, — to  twist  your  hair  in  papers, 
Or, — to  wean  you  from  the  vapours ; — 

As  for  these, 

.You  are  worth  the  love  they  give  you, 
Till  a  fairer  face  outlive  you, 
Or  a  younger  grace  shall  please ; 


26  Une  Marquise 

Till  the  coming  of  the  crows'  feet, 
And  the  backward  turn  of  beaux'  feet 

"  Belle  Marquise  !  " — 
Till  your  frothed-out  life's  commotion 
Settles  down  to  Ennui's  ocean, 
Or  a  dainty  sham  devotion, 

"  Belle  Marquise  I " 


No  :  we  neither  like  nor  love  you, 
"Belle  Marquise!" 
Lesser  lights  we  place  above  you, — 

Milder  merits  better  please. 
We  have  passed  from  Philosophe-dom 

Into  plainer  modern  days, — 
Grown  contented  in  our  oafdom, 

Giving  grace  not  all  the  praise ; 


Une  Marqiiise  27 

And,  en  partant,  Arstnoe, — 

Without  malice  whatsoever, — 
We  shall  counsel  to  our  Chloe 

To  be  rather  good  than  clever ; 
For  we  find  it  hard  to  smother 

Just  one  little  thought,  Marquise  ! 
Wittier  perhaps  than  any  other, — 
You  were  neither  Wife  nor  Mother, 

"  Belle  Marquise  !  " 


AN   AUTUMN   IDYLL 


"  Sweet  Themmes  !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  song  " 

SPENSER 


LAWRENCE.    FRANK.    JACK. 


LAWRENCE. 

HERE,    where   the    beech-nuts    drop   among   the 

grasses, 

Push  the  boat  in,  and  throw  the  rope  ashore. 
Jack,  hand  me  out  the  claret  and  the  glasses ; 

Here  let  us  sit.     We  landed  here  before. 
31 


32  An  Autumn  Idyll 

FRANK. 

Jack's  undecided.     Say,  formose  pue r, 
Bent  in  a  dream  above  the  "  water  wan," 

Shall  we  row  higher,  for  the  reeds  are  fewer, 
There  by  the  pollards,  where  you  see  the  swan  ? 

JACK. 

Hist !     That's  a  pike.     Look — nose  against  the  river, 
Gaunt  as  a  wolf, — the  sly  old  privateer ! 

Enter  a  gudgeon.     Snap, — a  gulp,  a  shiver ; — 
Exit  the  gudgeon.     Let  us  anchor  here 

FRANK  (in  the  grass). 

Jove,  what  a  day !     Black  Care  upon  the  crupper 
Nods  at  his  post,  and  slumbers  in  the  sun ; 

Half  of  Theocritus,  with  a  touch  of  Tupper, 
Churns  in  my  head.     The  frenzy  has  begun  ! 


An  Autumn  Idyll  33 

LAWRENCE. 

Sing  to  us  then.     Damcetas  in  a  choker, 
Much  out  of  tune,  will  edify  the  rooks. 

FRANK. 

Sing  you  again.     So  musical  a  croaker 
Surely  will  draw  the  fish  upon  the  hooks. 

JACK. 

Sing  while  you  may.     The  beard  of  manhood  still  is 
Faint  on  your  cheeks,  but  I,  alas  !  am  old. 

Doubtless  you  yet  believe  in  Amaryllis ; — 
Sing  me  of  Her,  whose  name  may  not  be  told. 

FRANK. 

Listen,  O  Thames  !     His  budding  beard  is  riper, 

Say — by  a  week.     Well,  Lawrence,  shall  we  sing  ? 

c 


34  An  Autumn  Idyll 

LAWRENCE. 

Yes,  if  you  will.     But  ere  I  play  the  piper, 
Let  him  declare  the  prize  he  has  to  bring. 

JACK. 

Hear  then,  my  Shepherds.     Lo,  to  him  accounted 
First  in  the  song,  a  Pipe  I  will  impart ; — 

This,  my  Beloved,  marvellously  mounted, 
Amber  and  foam,— a  miracle  of  art. 

LAWRENCE. 

Lordly  the  gift.     O  Muse  of  many  numbers, 
Grant  me  a  soft  alliterative  song  ! 

FRANK. 

Me  too,  O  Muse  !     And  when  the  Umpire  slumbers, 
Sting  him  with  gnats  a  summer  evening  long. 


An  Aittumn  Idyll  35 

LAWRENCE. 

Not  in  a  cot,  begarlanded  of  spiders, 

Not  where  the  brook  traditionally  "purls,"— 

No,  in  the  Row,  supreme  among  the  riders, 
Seek  I  the  gem, — the  paragon  of  girls. 

FRANK. 

Not  in  the  waste  of  column  and  of  coping, 
Not  in  the  sham  and  stucco  of  a  square, — 

No,  on  a  June-lawn,  to  the  water  sloping, 
Stands  she  I  honour,  beautifully  fair. 

LAWRENCE. 

Dark-haired  is  mine,  with  splendid  tresses  plaited 
Back  from  the  brows,  imperially  curled ; 

Calm  as  a  grand,  far-looking  Caryatid, 
Holding  the  roof  that  covers  in  a  world. 


36  An  Autumn  Idyll 

FRANK. 

Dark-haired  is  mine,  with  breezy  ripples  swinging 
Loose  as  a  vine-branch  blowing  in  the  morn ; 

Eyes  like  the  morning,  mouth  for  ever  singing, 
Blithe  as  a  bird  new  risen  from  the  corn. 

LAWRENCE. 

Best  is  the  song  with  the  music  interwoven  : 
Mine's  a  musician, — musical  at  heart, — 

Throbs  to  the  gathered  grieving  of  Beethoven, 
Sways  to  the  light  coquetting  of  Mozart. 

FRANK. 

Best  ?     You  should  hear  mine  trilling  out  a  ballad, 
Queen  at  a  pic-nic,  leader  of  the  glees, 

Not  too  divine  to  toss  you  up  a  salad, 

Great  in  Sir  Roger  danced  among  the  trees. 


'    -,        o-v  J&5    liZ-  •;  >, 

'>W  ^ 


An  Autumn  Idyll  37 

LAWRENCE. 

Ah,  when  the  thick  night  flares  with  dropping  torches, 
Ah,  when  the  crush-room  empties  of  the  swarm, 

Pleasant  the  hand  that,  in  the  gusty  porches, 
Light  as  a  snow-flake,  settles  on  your  arm. 

FRANK. 

Better  the  twilight  and  the  cheery  chatting, — 

Better  the  dim,  forgotten  garden-seat, 
Where  one  may  lie,  and  watch  the  fingers  tatting, 

Lounging  with  Bran  or  Bevis  at  her  feet. 

LAWRENCE. 

All  worship  mine.  Her  purity  doth  hedge  her 
Round  with  so  delicate  divinity,  that  men, 

Stained  to  the  soul  with  money-bag  and  ledger, 
Bend  to  the  goddess,  manifest  again. 


38  An  Autumn  Idyll 

FRANK. 

None  worship  mine.     But  some,  I  fancy,  love  her,- 
Cynics  to  boot.     I  know  the  children  run, 

Seeing  her  come,  for  naught  that  I  discover, 
Save  that  she  brings  the  summer  and  the  sun. 

LAWRENCE. 

Mine  is  a  Lady,  beautiful  and  queenly, 
Crowned  with  a  sweet,  continual  control, 

Grandly  forbearing,  lifting  life  serenely 
E'en  to  her  own  nobility  of  soul. 

FRANK. 

Mine  is  a  Woman,  kindly  beyond  measure, 
Fearless  in  praising,  faltering  in  blame : 

Simply  devoted  to  other  people's  pleasure, — 

Jack's  sister  Florence, — now  you  know  her  name. 


An  Autumn  Idyll  39 

LAWRENCE. 

"  Jack's  sister  Florence  ! "     Never,  Francis,  never. 
Jack,  do  you  hear?     Why,  it  was  she  I  meant. 
She  like  the  country  !     Ah,  she's  far  too  clever — 


FRANK. 
There  you  are  wrong.     I  know  her  down  in  Kent. 

LAWRENCE. 

You'll  get  a  sunstroke,  standing  with  your  head  bare. 
Sorry  to  differ.     Jack, — the  word's  with  you. 

FRANK. 

How  is  it,  Umpire  ?    Though  the  motto's  threadbare, 
"  Caluin,  non  animum  " — is,  I  take  it,  true. 


40  An  Autumn  Idyll 

JACK. 

" Souventfemme  varie"  as  a  rule,  is  truer; 

Flattered,  I'm  sure, — but  both  of  you  romance. 
Happy  to  further  suit  of  either  wooer, 

Merely  observing — you  haven't  got  a  chance. 

LAWRENCE. 
Yes.     But  the  Pipe— 

FRANK. 
The  Pipe  is  what  we  care  for,- 

JACK. 

Well,  in  this  case,  I  scarcely  need  explain, 
Judgment  of  mine  were  indiscreet,  and  therefore, — 
Peace  to  you  both.     The  Pipe  I  shall  retain. 


A   GARDEN    IDYLL 


A  LADY. 


A  POET. 


THE  LADY. 

r"^*  IR  POET,  ere  you  crossed  the  lawn 

(If  it  was  wrong  to  watch  you,  pardon,) 
Behind  this  weeping  birch  withdrawn, 

I  watched  you  saunter  round  the  garden. 
I  saw  you  bend  beside  the  phlox, 

Pluck,  as  you  passed,  a  sprig  of  myrtle, 
Review  my  well-ranged  hollyhocks, 

Smile  at  the  fountain's  slender  spurtle ; 

43 


44  A   Garden  Idyll 

You  paused  beneath  the  cherry-tree, 

Where  my  marauder  thrush  was  singing, 
Peered  at  the  bee-hives  curiously, 

And  narrowly  escaped  a  stinging ; 
And  then — you  see  I  watched — you  passed 

Down  the  espalier  walk  that  reaches 
Out  to  the  western  wall,  and  last 

Dropped  on  the  seat  before  the  peaches. 


What  was  your  thought?     You  waited  long. 

Sublime  or  graceful, — grave, — satiric  ? 
A  Morris  Greek-and-Gothic  song? 

A  tender  Tennysonian  lyric  ? 
Tell  me.     That  garden-seat  shall  be, 

So  long  as  speech  renown  disperses, 
Illustrious  as  the  spot  where  he — 

The  gifted  Blank — composed  his  verses. 


A   Garden  Idyll  45 

THE  POET. 

Madam, — whose  uncensorious  eye 

Grows  gracious  over  certain  pages, 
Wherein  the  Jester's  maxims  lie, 

It  may  be,  thicker  than  the  Sage's — 
I  hear  but  to  obey,  and  could 

Mere  wish  of  mine  the  pleasure  do  you, 
Some  verse  as  whimsical  as  Hood, — 

As  gay  as  Praed,— should  answer  to  you. 

But,  though  the  common  voice  proclaims 

Our  only  serious  vocation 
Confined  to  giving  nothings  names, 

And  dreams  a  "  local  habitation  " ; 
Believe  me  there  are  tuneless  days, 

When  neither  marble,  brass,  nor  vellum, 
Would  profit  much  by  any  lays 

That  haunt  the  poet's  cerebellum. 


46  A   Garden  Idyll 

More  empty  things,  I  fear,  than  rhymes, 

More  idle  things  than  songs,  absorb  it ; 
The  "  finely-frenzied"  eye,  at  times, 

Reposes  mildly  in  its  orbit ; 
And — painful  truth  ! — at  times,  to  him, 

Whose  jog-trot  thought  is  nowise  restive, 
''A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim  " 

Is  absolutely  unsuggestive. 


The  fickle  Muse  !     As  ladies  will, 

She  sometimes  wearies  of  her  wooer ; 
A  goddess,  yet  a  woman  still, 

She  flies  the  more  that  we  pursue  her ; 
In  short,  with  worst  as  well  as  best, 

Five  months  in  six,  your  hapless  poet 
Is  just  as  prosy  as  the  rest, 

But  cannot  comfortably  show  it. 


A   Garden  Idyll  47 

You  thought,  no  doubt,  the  garden-scent 

Brings  back  some  brief-winged  bright  sensation 
Of  love  that  came  and  love  that  went, — 

Some  fragrance  of  a  lost  flirtation, 
Born  when  the  cuckoo  changes  song, 

Dead  ere  the  apple's  red  is  on  it, 
That  should  have  been  an  epic  long, 

Yet  scarcely  served  to  fill  a  sonnet. 


Or  else  you  thought,  —  the  murmuring  noon, 

He  turns  it  to  a  lyric  sweeter, 
With  birds  that  gossip  in  the  tune, 

And  windy  bough-swing  in  the  metre ; 
Or  else  the  zigzag  fruit-tree  arms 

Recall  some  dream  of  harp-prest  bosoms, 
Round  singing  mouths,  and  chanted  charms, 

And  mediaeval  orchard  blossoms, — 


48  A   Garden  Idyll 

Quite  ci  la  mode.     Alas  for  prose  ! — 

My  vagrant  fancies  only  rambled 
Back  to  the  red-walled  Rectory  close,  • 

When  first  my  graceless  boyhood  gamboled, 
Climbed  on  the  dial,  teased  the  fish, 

And  chased  the  kitten  round  the  beeches, 
Till  widening  instincts  made  me  wish 

For  certain  slowly-ripening  peaches. 


Three  peaches.     Not  the  Graces  three 

Had  more  equality  of  beauty  : 
I  would  not  look,  yet  went  to  see ; 

I  wrestled  with  Desire  and  Duty ; 
I  felt  the  pangs  of  those  who  feel 

The  Laws  of  Property  beset  them ; 
The  conflict  made  my  reason  reel, 

And,  half-abstractedly,  I  ate  them  ; — 


A   Garden  Idyll  49 

Or  Two  of  them.     Forthwith  Despair — 

More  keen  that  one  of  these  was  rotten — 
Moved  me  to  seek  some  forest  lair 

Where  I  might  hide  and  dwell  forgotten, 
Attired  in  skins,  by  berries  stained, 

Absolved  from  brushes  and  ablution  ; — 
But,  ere  my  sylvan  haunt  was  gained, 

Fate  gave  me  up  to  execution. 


I  saw  it  all  but  now.     The  grin 

That  gnarled  old  Gardener  Sandy's  features  ; 
My  father,  scholar-like  and  thin, 

Unroused,  the  tenderest  of  creatures ; 
I  saw — ah  me — I  saw  again 

My  dear  and  deprecating  mother ; 
And  then,  remembering  the  cane, 

Regretted— that  Fd  left  the  Other. 

D 


A    DIALOGUE    FROM    PLATO 


c/on  're  reacting  yret/i^  ? 


'D  "  read  "  three  hours.     Both  notes  and  text 

Were  fast  a  mist  becoming ; 
In  bounced  a  vagrant  bee,  perplexed, 

And  rilled  the  room  with  humming, 


Then  out.     The  casement's  leafage  sways, 

And,  parted  light,  discloses 
Miss  Di.,  with  hat  and  book, — a  maze 


Of  muslin  mixed  with  roses. 

53 


54  A   Dialogue  from  Plato 

" You're  reading  Greek ? "  "I  am — and  you ? 

"  O,  mine's  a  mere  romancer  ! " 
"  So  Plato  is."     "  Then  read  him— do  ; 

And  I'll  read  mine  in  answer." 

I  read.     "  My  Plato  (Plato,  too,— 
That  wisdom  thus  should  harden  !) 

Declares  '  blue  eyes  look  doubly  blue 
Beneath  a  Dolly  Varden.'  " 

She  smiled.     "  My  book  in  turn  avers 

(No  author's  name  is  stated) 
That  sometimes  those  Philosophers 

Are  sadly  mis-translated." 

"  But  hear, — the  next's  in  stronger  style  : 

The  Cynic  School  asserted 
That  two  red  lips  which  part  and  smile 

May  not  be  controverted  ! " 


A  Dialogue  from  Plato  55 

She  smiled  once  more—"  My  book,  I  find, 

Observes  some  modern  doctors 
Would  make  the  Cynics  out  a  kind 

Of  album-verse  concoctors." 

Then  I — "  Why  not  ?     '  Ephesian  law, 

No  less  than  time's  tradition, 
Enjoined  fair  speech  on  all  who  saw 

DIANA'S  apparition.'" 

She  blushed — this  time.     "  If  Plato's  page 

No  wiser  precept  teaches, 
Then  I'd  renounce  that  doubtful  sage, 

And  walk  to  Burnham-beeches." 

"  Agreed,"  I  said.     "  For  Socrates 

(I  find  he  too  is  talking) 
Thinks  Learning  can't  remain  at  ease 

While  Beauty  goes  a-walking." 


56  A  Dialogue  from  Plato 

She  read  no  more.      I  leapt  the  sill : 
The  sequel's  scarce  essential — 

Nay,  more  than  this,  I  hold  it  still 
Profoundly  confidential. 


DOROTHY 


^*  HE  then  must  once  have  looked,  as  I 

Look  now,  across  the  level  rye, — 
Past  Church  and  Manor-house,  and  seen, 
As  now  I  see,  the  village  green, 
The  bridge,  and  Walton's  river — she 
Whose  old-world  name  was  "  Dorothy." 

59 


60  DorotJiy 

The  swallows  must  have  twittered,  too, 
Above  her  head  ;  the  roses  blew 
Below,  no  doubt, — and,  sure,  the  South 
Crept  up  the  wall  and  kissed  her  mouth, - 
That  wistful  mouth,  which  comes  to  me 
Linked  with  her  name  of  Dorothy. 

What  was  she  like  ?     I  picture  her 
Unmeet  for  uncouth  worshipper  ; — 
Soft, — pensive, — far  too  subtly  graced 
To  suit  the  blunt  bucolic  taste, 
Whose  crude  perception  could  but  see 
"  Ma'am  Fine-airs  "  in  "  Miss  Dorothy." 

How  not  ?     She  loved,  may  be,  perfume, 
Soft  textures,  lace,  a  half-lit  room ; — 
Perchance  too  candidly  preferred 
"  Clarissa  "  to  a  gossip's  word ; — 


Dorothy  6 1 


And,  for  the  rest,  would  seem  to  be 
Or  proud,  or  dull — this  Dorothy. 


Poor  child  ! — with  heart  the  down-lined  nest 
Of  warmest  instincts  unconfest, 
Soft,  callow  things  that  vaguely  felt 
The  breeze  caress,  the  sunlight  melt, 
But  yet,  by  some  obscure  decree 
Unwinged  from  birth ;—  poor  Dorothy  ! 


Not  less  I  dream  her  mute  desire 
To  acred  churl  and  booby  squire, 
Now  pale,  with  timorous  eyes  that  filled 
At  "  twice-told  tales  "  of  foxes  killed ; — 
Now   trembling   when   slow   tongues   grew 

free 
'Twixt  sport,  and  Port — and  Dorothy  ! 


62  Dorothy 

Twas  then  she'd  seek  this  nook,  and  find 
Its  evening  landscape  balmy-kind ; 
And  here,  where  still  her  gentle  name 
Lives  on  the  old  green  glass,  would  frame 
Fond  dreams  of  unfound  harmony 
'Twixt  heart  and  heart.     Poor  Dorothy  ! 


L'ENVOI. 

These  last  I  spoke.     Then  Florence  said, 
Below  me, — "  Dreams  ?     Delusions,  Fred ! 
Next,  with  a  pause, — she  bent  the  while 
Over  a  rose,  with  roguish  smile — 
"But  how  disgusted,  sir,  you'll  be 
To  hear  2  scrawled  that  '  Dorothy.' " 


POT   POURRI 


"  Si  jeunesse  sa-vait  ? — 


PLUNGE  my  hand  among  the  leaves  : 
(An  alien  touch  but  dust  perceives, 

Nought  else  supposes ;) 
For  me  those  fragrant  ruins  raise 
Clear  memory  of  the  vanished  days 
When  they  were  roses. 

"  If  youth  but  knew  ! "     Ah,  "  if",  in  truth- 
I  can  recall  with  what  gay  youth, 

To  what  light  chorus, 

65  E 


66  Pot  Pourri 

Unsobered  yet  by  time  or  change, 
We  roamed  the  many-gabled  Grange, 
All  life  before  us  ; 


Braved  the  old  clock-tower's  dust  and  damp 
To  catch  the  dim  Arthurian  camp 

In  misty  distance; 

Peered  at  the  still-room's  sacred  stores, 
Or  rapped  at  walls  for  sliding  doors 

Of  feigned  existence. 


What  need  had  we  for  thoughts  or  cares ! 
The  hot  sun  parched  the  old  parterres 

And  "  flowerful  closes  "  ; 
We  roused  the  rooks  with  rounds  and  glees, 
Played  hide-and-seek  behind  the  trees, — 

Then  plucked  these  roses. 


fe'^;;' 

& 

Y1-!.    .„    ^   ^^r J4^  .J>.a 


Pot  Pourri  67 

Louise  was  one — light,  glib  Louise, 
So  freshly  freed  from  school  decrees 

You  scarce  could  stop  her ; 
And  Bell,  the  Beauty,  unsurprised 
At  fallen  locks  that  scandalized 

Our  dear  "  Miss  Proper  :  " — 


Shy  Ruth,  all  heart  and  tenderness, 
Who  wept — like  Chaucer's  Prioress, 

When  Dash  was  smitten  ; 
Who  blushed  before  the  mildest  men, 
Yet  waxed  a  very  Corday  when 

You  teased  her  kitten. 


I  loved  them  all.     Bell  first  and  best ; 
Louise  the  next   -for  days  of  jest 
Or  madcap  masking ; 


68  Pot  Pourri 

And  Ruth,  I  thought, — why,  failing  these, 
When  my  High-Mightiness  should  please, 


Louise  was  grave  when  last  we  met ; 
Bell's  beauty,  like  a  sun,  has  set ; 

And  Ruth,  Heaven  bless  her, 
Ruth  that  I  wooed, — and  wooed  in  vain, 
Has  gone  where  neither  grief  nor  pain 

Can  now  distress  her. 


THE   SUNDIAL 


IS  an  old  dial,  dark  with  many  a  stain  • 
In  summer  crowned  with  drifting  orchard 

bloom, 

Tricked  in  the  autumn  with  the  yellow  rain, 
And  white  in  winter  like  a  marble  tomb ; 


And  round  about  its  gray,  time-eaten  brow 

Lean    letters    speak — a   worn    and    shattered 

row  : 
31  am  a  %>t>$bt :  a  -g^afcotoe  too  arte  tljou  : 

31  mar&e  tjjc  Eime :  0ape,  <8o0sip,  Bost  t&ou  aoe  ? 

71 


72  The  Sundial 

Here  would  the  ringdoves  linger,  head  to  head ; 

And  here  the  snail  a  silver  course  would  run, 
Beating  old  Time ;  and  here  the  peacock  spread 

His  gold  green  glory,  shutting  out  the  sun. 

The  tardy  shade  moved  forward  to  the  noon ; 

Betwixt  the  paths  a  dainty  Beauty  stept, 
That  swung  a  flower,  and,  smiling,  hummed  a  tune, 

Before  whose  feet  a  barking  spaniel  leapt. 

O'er  her  blue  dress  an  endless  blossom  strayed  ; 

About  her  tendril-curls  the  sunlight  shone ; 
And  round  her  train  the  tiger-lilies  swayed, 

Like  courtiers  bowing  till  the  queen  be  gone. 

She  leaned  upon  the  slab  a  little  while, 

Then  drew  a  jewelled  pencil  from  her  zone, 

Scribbled  a  something  with  a  frolic  smile, 

Folded,  inscribed,  and  niched  it  in  the  stone. 


The  Sundial 


73 


The  shade  slipped  on,  no  swifter  than  the  snail , 
There  came  a  second  lady  to  the  place, 

Dove-eyed,  dove-robed,  and  something  wan  and  pale — 
An  inner  beauty  shining  from  her  face. 

She,  as  if  listless  with  a  lonely  love, 

Straying  among  the  alleys  with  a  book, — 

Herrick  or  Herbert,—  watched  the  circling  dove, 
And  spied  the  tiny  letter  in  the  nook. 

Then,  like  to  one  who  confirmation  found 
Of  some  dread  secret  half-accounted  true, — 

Who  knew  what  hands  and  hearts  the  letter  bound, 
And  argued  loving  commerce  'twixt  the  two, 

She  bent  her  fair  young  forehead  on  the  stone  ; 

The  dark  shade  gloomed  an  instant  on  her  head ; 
And  'twixt  her  taper-fingers  pearled  and  shone 

The  single  tear  that  tear-worn  eyes  will  shed. 


74  The  Sundial 

The  shade  slipped  onward  to  the  falling  gloom ; 

There  came  a  soldier  gallant  in  her  stead, 
Swinging  a  beaver  with  a  swaling  plume, 

A  ribboned  love-lock  rippling  from  his  head  ; 

Blue-eyed,  frank-faced,  with  clear  and  open  brow, 
Scar-seamed  a  little,  as  the  women  love ; 

So  kindly  fronted  that  you  marvelled  how 

The  frequent  sword-hilt  had  so  frayed  his  glove ; 

Who  switched  at  Psyche  plunging  in  the  sun ; 

Uncrowned  three  lilies  with  a  backward  swinge ; 
And  standing  somewhat  widely,  like  to  one 

More  used  to  "  Boot  and  Saddle  "  than  to  cringe 

As  courtiers  do,  but  gentleman  withal, 

Took  out  the  note ;  held  it  as  one  who  feared 

The  fragile  thing  he  held  would  slip  and  fall ; 
Read  and  re-read,  pulling  his  tawny  beard ; 


The  Sundial  75 

Kissed  it,  I  think,  and  hid  it  in  his  breast , 
Laughed  softly  in  a  flattered  happy  way; 

Arranged  the  broidered  baldrick  on  his  chest 
And  sauntered  past,  singing  a  roundelay 


The  shade  crept  forward  through  the  dying  glow ; 

There  came  no  more  nor  dame  nor  cavalier : 
But  for  a  little  time  the  brass  will  show 

A  small  gray  spot — the  record  of  a  tear. 


CUPID'S   ALLEY 


O,  Loves  but  a  dance, 

Where  Time  plays  the  fiddle  ! 
See  the  couples  advance, — 
O,  Love's  but  a  dance  ! 
A  whisker,  a  glance, — 

"Shall  ive  twirl  down  the  middle?* 
(9,  Lovers  but  a  dance, 

Where  Time  plays  tJte  fiddle .' 


T  runs  (so  saith  my  Chronicler) 

Across  a  smoky  City ; — 
A  Babel  filled  with  buzz  and  whirr, 

Huge,  gloomy,  black  and  gritty; 
Dark-louring  looks  the  hill-side  near, 

Dark-yawning  looks  the  valley, — 
But  here  'tis  always  fresh  and  clear, 

For  here— is  "Cupid's  Alley." 


8o  Cupid's  Alley 

And,  from  an  Arbour  cool  and  green, 

With  aspect  down  the  middle, 
An  ancient  Fiddler,  gray  and  lean, 

Scrapes  on  an  ancient  fiddle ; 
Alert  he  seems,  but  aged  enow 

To  punt  the  Stygian  galley ; — 
With  wisp  of  forelock  on  his  brow, 

He  plays— in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


All  day  he  plays, — a  single  tune  ! — 

But.  by  the  oddest  chances, 
Gavotte,  or  Brawl,  or  Rigadoon, 

It  suits  all  kinds  of  dances ; 
My  Lord  may  walk  a  pas  de  Cour 

To  Jenny's  pas  de  Chalet ; — 
The  folks  who  ne'er  have  danced  before, 

Can  dance— in  "Cupid's  Alley." 


Cupids  Alley  8 1 

And  here,  for  ages  yet  untold, 

Long,  long  before  my  ditty, 
Came  high  and  low,  and  young  and  old, 

From  out  the  crowded  City ; 
And  still  to-day  they  come,  they  go, 

And  just  as  fancies  tally, 
They  foot  it  quick,  they  foot  it  slow, 

All  day — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


Strange  dance  !     'Tis  free  to  Rank  and  Rags ; 

Here  no  distinction  flatters, 
Here  Riches  shakes  its  money-bags, 

And  Poverty  its  tatters  ; 
Church,  Army,  Navy,  Physic,  Law; — 

Maid,  Mistress,  Master,  Valet; 
Long  locks,  gray  hairs,  bald  heads,  and  a', — 

They  bob— in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


82  Cupid's  Alley 

Strange  pairs !     To  laughing,  fresh  Fifteen 

Here  capers  Prudence  thrifty ; 
Here  Prodigal  leads  down  the  green 

A  blushing  Maid  of  fifty ; 
Some  treat  it  as  a  serious  thing, 

And  some  but  shilly-shally ; 
And  some  have  danced  without  the  ring 

(Ah  me  !)— in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


And  sometimes  one  to  one  will  dance, 

And  think  of  one  behind  her ; 
And  one  by  one  will  stand,  perchance, 

Yet  look  all  ways  to  find  her ; 
Some  seek  a  partner  with  a  sigh, 

Some  win  him  with  a  sally ; 
And  some,  they  know  not  how  nor  why, 

Strange  fate !— of  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


C-upid's  Alley  83 

And  some  will  dance  an  age  or  so 

Who  came  for  half  a  minute ; 
And  some,  who  like  the  game,  will  go 

Before  they  well  begin  it ; 
And  some  will  vow  they're  "  danced  to  death," 

Who  (somehow)  always  rally ; 
Strange  cures  are  wrought  (mine  author  saith), 

Strange  cures  ! — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


It  may  be  one  will  dance  to-day, 

And  dance  no  more  to-morrow ; 
It  may  be  one  will  steal  away 

And  nurse  a  life-long  sorrow ; 
What  then  ?     The  rest  advance,  evade, 

Unite,  dispart,  and  dally, 
Re-set,  coquet,  and  gallopade, 

Not  less — in  "Cupid's  Alley." 


84  Cupid's  Alley 

For  till  that  City's  wheel-work  vast 

And  shuddering  beams  shall  crumble ; — 
And  till  that  Fiddler  lean  at  last 

From  off  his  seat  shall' tumble; — 
Till  then  (the  Civic  records  say), 

This  quaint,  fantastic  ballet 
Of  Go  and  Stay,  of  Yea  and  Nay, 

Must  last — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


LOVE   IN    WINTER 


T^\  ETWEEN  the  berried  holly-bush 

The  Blackbird  whistled  to  the  Thrush : 
"  Which  way  did  bright-eyed  Bella  go  ? 
Look,  Speckle-breast,  across  the  snow, — 
Are  those  her  dainty  tracks  I  see, 
That  wind  beside  the  shrubbery  ?  " 

The  Throstle  pecked  the  berries  still. 
"  No  need  for  looking,  Yellow-bill ; 
Young  Frank  was  there  an  hour  ago, 
Half  frozen,  waiting  in  the  snow ; 
His  callow  beard  was  white  with  rime, — 

'Tchuck. — 'tis  a  merry  pairing-time  !  " 

87 


88  Love  in   Winter 

"  What  would  you  ?  "  twittered  in  the  Wren  ; 
"  These  are  the  reckless  ways  of  men. 
I  watched  them  bill  and  coo  as  though 
They  thought  the  sign  of  Spring  was  snow ; 
If  men  but  timed  their  loves  as  we, 
'Twould  save  this  inconsistency." 

"Nay,  Gossip,"  chirped  the  Robin,  "nay; 
I  like  their  unreflective  way. 
Besides,  I  heard  enough  to  show 
Their  love  is  proof  against  the  snow  : — 
'  Why  wait,'  he  said,  '  why  wait  for  May, 
When  love  can  warm  a  winter's  day  ? ' " 


THE   CURB'S   PROGRESS 


u-r  1/»e>  Cure 


Ghe  Cure's 


M 


ONSIEUR  the  Cure"  down  the  street 

Comes  with  his  kind  old  face, — 
With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 


You  may  see  him  pass  by  the  little  "  Grande 

Place," 

And  the  tiny  "Hotel  de  Ville  "  ; 
He  smiles  as  he  goes,  to  the  fleuriste  Rose, 

And  the  pompier  Theophile. 

91 


92  77te  CurJs  Progress 

He  turns,  as  a  rule,  through  the  "  Marche "  cool, 

Where  the  noisy  fish-wives  call ; 
And  his  compliment  pays  to  the  "belle  Therese" 

As  she  knits  in  her  dusky  stall. 

There's  a  letter  to  drop  at  the  locksmith's  shop, 
And  Toto,  the  locksmith's  niece, 

Has  jubilant  hopes,  for  the  Cure  gropes 
In  his  tails  for  a  pain  (fcpice. 

There's  a  little  dispute  with  a  merchant  of  fruit, 

Who  is  said  to  be  heterodox, 
That  will  ended  be  with  a  "  A/afoi,  out !" 

And  a  pinch  from  the  Cure's  box. 

There  is  also  a  word  that  no  one  heard 

To  the  furrier's  daughter  Lou. ; 
And  a  pale  cheek  fed  with  a  flickering  red, 

And  a  "  Bon  Dieu  garde  Afsieu  !  " 


The  Cut£s  Progress  93 

But  a  grander  way  for  the  Sous-Prefet, 

And  a  bow  for  Ma'am'selle  Anne ; 
And  a  mock  "  off-hat "  to  the  Notary's  cat, 

And  a  nod  to  the  Sacristan  : — 

For  ever  through  life  the  Cure  goes 

With  a  smile  on  his  kind  old  face — 
With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 

And  his  green  umbrella-case. 


AT   THE   CONVENT   GATE 


^ 


ISTARIA     blossoms     trail 

and  fall 
Above  the  length  of  barrier  wall ; 

And  softly,  now  and  then, 
The    shy,    staid-breasted    doves 

will  flit 

From  roof  to  gateway-top,  and  sit 
And  watch  the  ways  of  men. 

-   The  gate's  ajar.     If  one  might  peep  ! 
Ah,  what  a  haunt  of  rest  and  sleep 

The  shadowy  garden  seems  ! 

97  r. 


98  At  the  Convent  Gate 

And  note  how  dimly  to  and  fro 
The  grave,  gray-hooded  Sisters  go, 
Like  figures  seen  in  dreams. 


Look,  there  is  one  that  tells  her  beads 
And  yonder  one  apart  that  reads 

A  tiny  missal's  page  ; 
And  see,  beside  the  well,  the  two 
That,  kneeling,  strive  to  lure  anew 

The  magpie  to  its  cage  ! 


Not  beautiful-  not  all !     But  each 
With  that  mild  grace,  outlying  speech, 

Which  comes  of  even  mood ; — 
The  Veil  unseen  that  women  wear 
With  heart-whole  thought,  and  quiet  care, 

And  hope  of  higher  good. 


At  the  Convent  Gate  99 

"  A  placid  life — a  peaceful  life  ! 

What  need  to  these  the  name  of  Wife? 

What  gentler  task  (I  said)— 
What  worthier — e'en  your  arts  among — 
Than  tend  the  sick,  and  teach  the  young, 

And  give  the  hungry  bread  ?  " 

"  No  worthier  task  ! "  re-echoes  She, 
Who  (closelier  clinging)  turns  with  me 

To  face  the  road  again  : 
—And  yet,  in  that  warm  heart  of  hers, 
She  means  the  doves',  for  she  prefers 

To  "  watch  the  ways  of  men." 


THE   MISOGYNIST 


w 


HEN  first  he  sought  our  haunts,  he  wore 

His  locks  in  Hamlet-style; 
His    brow    with    thought    was    "sicklied 

o'er," — 

We  rarely  saw  him  smile  ; 
And,  e'en  when  none  were  looking  on, 
His  air  was  always  woe-begone. 


He  kept,  I  think,  his  bosom  bare 


To  imitate  Jean  Paul ; 
103 


IO4  The  Misogynist 

His  solitary  topics  were 

Esthetics,  Fate,  and  Soul ; — 
Although  at  times,  but  not  for  long, 
He  bowed  his  Intellect  to  song. 


He  served,  he  said,  a  Muse  of  Tears  : 

I  know  his  verses  breathed 
A  fine  funereal  air  of  biers, 

And  objects  cypress-wreathed  ;— 
Indeed,  his  tried  acquaintance  fled 
An  ode  he  named  "  The  Sheeted  Dead.' 


In  these  light  moods,  I  call  to  mind, 

He  darkly  would  allude 
To  some  dread  sorrow  undefined, — 

Some  passion  unsubdued ; 


The  Misogynist  105 

Then  break  into  a  ghastly  laugh, 
And  talk  of  Keats  his  epitaph. 


He  railed  at  women's  faith  as  Cant ; 

We  thought  him  grandest  when 
He  named  them  Siren-shapes  that  "chant 

On  blanching  bones  of  Men  ; " — 
Alas,  not  e'en  the  great  go  free 
From  that  insidious  minstrelsy ! 


His  lot,  he  oft  would  gravely  urge, 
Lay  on  a  lone  Rock  where 

Around  Time-beaten  bases  surge 
The  Billows  of  Despair. 

We  dreamed  it  true.     We  never  knew 

What  gentler  ears  he  told  it  to. 


io6  The  Misogynist 

We,  bound  with  him  in  common  care, 

One-minded,  celibate, 
Resolved  to  Thought  and  Diet  spare 

Our  lives  to  dedicate ; — 
We,  truly,  in  no  common  sense, 
Deserved  his  closest  confidence  ! 

But  soon,  and  yet,  though  soon,  too  late, 
We,  sorrowing,  sighed  to  find 

A  gradual  softness  enervate 
That  all  superior  mind, 

Until, — in  full  assembly  met, 

He  dared  to  speak  of  Etiquette. 

The  verse  that  we  severe  had  known, 

Assumed  a  wanton  air, — 
A  fond  effeminate  monotone 

Of  eyebrows,  lips,  and  hair ; 


The  Misogynist  107 

Not  7/#os  stirred  him  now  or  rovs, 
He  read  "The  Angel  in  the  House!" 


Nay  worse.     He,  once  sublime  to  chaff, 

Grew  ludicrously  sore 
If  we  but  named  a  photograph 

We  found  him  simpering  o'er  ; 
Or  told  how  in  his  chambers  lurked 
A  watch-guard  intricately  worked. 


Then  worse  again.     He  tried  to  dress ; 

He  trimmed  his  tragic  mane; 
Announced  at  length  (to  our  distress) 

He  had  not  "  lived  in  vain  " ; — 
Thenceforth  his  one  prevailing  mood 
Became  a  base  beatitude. 


ro8  The  Misogynist 

And  O  Jean  Paul,  and  Fate,  and  Soul ! 

We  met  him  last,  grown  stout, 
His  throat  with  wedlock's  triple  roll, 

"  All  wool," — enwound  about ; 
His  very  hat  had  changed  its  brim  ; — 
Our  course  was  clear, — WE  BANISHED  HIM  ! 


A   VIRTUOSO 


B 


E  seated,  pray.     "  A  grave  appeal "  ? 

The  sufferers  by  the  war,  of  course  ; 
Ah,  what  a  sight  for  us  who  feel, — 

This  monstrous  mclodrame  of  Force  ! 
We,  Sir,  we  connoisseurs,  should  know, 

On  whom  its  heaviest  burden  falls  ; 
Collections  shattered  at  a  blow, 

Museums  turned  to  hospitals  ! 


1 2  A    Virtuoso 

"And  worse,"  you  say;  "the  wide  distress '" 

Alas,  'tis  true  distress  exists, 
Though,  let  me  add,  our  worthy  Press 

Have  no  mean  skill  as  colourists ; — 
Speaking  of  colour,  next  your  seat 

There  hangs  a  sketch  from  Vernet's  hand  ; 
Some  Moscow  fancy,  incomplete, 

Yet  not  indifferently  planned  ; 


Note  specially  the  gray  old  Guard, 

Who  tears  his  tattered  coat  to  wrap 
A  closer  bandage  round  the  scarred 

And  frozen  comrade  in  his  lap ; — 
But,  as  regards  the  present  war, — 

Now  don't  you  think  our  pride  of  pence 
Goes— may  I  say  it? — somewhat  far 

For  objects  of  benevolence  ? 


A    Virtuoso  113 

You  hesitate.     For  my  part,  I — 

Though  ranking  Paris  next  to  Rome, 
^sthetically— still  reply 

That  "  Charity  begins  at  Home." 
The  words  remind  me.      Did  you  catch 

My  so-named  "  Hunt  "  ?     The  girl's  a  gem  ; 
And  look  how  those  lean  rascals  snatch 

The  pile  of  scraps  she  brings  to  them  ! 


"  But  your  appeal's  for  home," — you  say, — 

For  home,  and  English  poor !     Indeed  ! 
I  thought  Philanthropy  to-day 

Was  blind  to  mere  domestic  need — 
However  sore — Yet  though  one  grants 

That  home  should  have  the  foremost  claims, 
At  least  these  Continental  wants 

Assume  intelligible  names  ; 


1 4  A    Virtuoso 

While  here  with  us — Ah  !  who  could  hope 

To  verify  the  varied  pleas, 
Or  from  his  private  means  to  cope 

With  all  our  shrill  necessities  ! 
Impossible  !     One  might  as  well 

Attempt  comparison  of  creeds ; 
Or  fill  that  huge  Malayan  shell 

With  these  half-dozen  Indian  beads. 


Moreover,  add  that  every  one 

So  well  exalts  his  pet  distress, 
Tis — Give  to  all,  or  give  to  none, 

If  you'd  avoid  invidiousness. 
Your  case,  I  feel,  is  sad  as  A.'s, 

The  same  applies  to  B.'s  and  C.'s  j 
By  my  selection  I  should  raise 

An  alphabet  of  rivalries  : 


A    Virtuoso  1 1 5 

And  life  is  short, — I  see  you  look 

At  yonder  dish,  a  priceless  bit ; 
You'll  find  it  etched  in  Jacquemart's  book, 

They  say  that  Raphael  painted  it ; — 
And  life  is  short,  you  understand ; 

So,  if  I  only  hold  you  out 
An  open  though  an  empty  hand, 

Why,  you'll  forgive  me,  I've  no  doubt. 


Nay,  do  not  rise.     You  seem  amused  ; 

One  can  but  be  consistent,  Sir ! 
'Twas  on  these  grounds  I  just  refused 

Some  gushing  lady-almoner, — 
Believe  me,  on  these  very  grounds. 

Good-bye,  then.     Ah,  a  rarity ! 
That  cost  me  quite  three  hundred  pounds, — 

That  Diirer  figure, — "Charity." 


NOTES 


NOTES 

NOTE  i,  PAGE  i. 
"An  Incident  in  the  Life  of  Francois  Boucher." 

SEE  Boucher,  by  Arsene  Houssaye,  Galerie  du  XVlIfc  Stick 
(Cinquibne  Serte),  and  Charles  Blanc,  Hisloire  des  Peintres  de 
tous  les  Acoles. 

NOTE  2,  PAGE  i. 
"  The  scene,  a  wood." 

The  picture  referred  to  is  Le  lanier  Mysterieux  by  F.  Boucher  ; 
engraved  by  R.  Gaillard. 

NOTE  3,  PAGE  3. 

"  And 'far  afield  -were  sun-baked  savage  creatures. " 
See  Les  Caracteres  de  LA  BKUYERE,  De  I'homme. 

NOTE  4,  PAGE  4. 
"  Whose  greatest  grace  was  jupes  a  la  Caniargo. " 

"  C'ctait  le  beau  temps  oh  Caniargo  tiowait  ses  jupes  trep  tongues 
pour  danser  la  gargouillade.'' — AKSENE  IIOUSSAYK. 

119 


1 20  Notes 

NOTE  5,  PAGE  5. 
"  The  grass  he  called  '  too  green?  " 

"//  trouvait  la  nature  trap  -verte  et  mal  eclairee.  Et  son  ami 
Lancret,  le  peintre  des  salons  a  la  mode,  lui  repondait:  'Je  sins 
de  votre  sentiment,  la  nature  manqiie  (f  hannonie  ft  de  sedtic- 
tion:  "—CHARLES  BLANC. 


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